


An Arrow Made of Mistletoe

by Crowgirl



Category: Rosemary and Thyme
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Episode Tag, F/F, First Kiss, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 21:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8684347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: ‘You are not going to win,’ she tells it, shaking a finger at it so her bracelets rattle. ‘You can sit there all day if you like and you are not--’





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elizajane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/gifts).



Rosemary stands in her kitchen and glares at the sprig of mistletoe. She hadn’t thought about getting it -- she’s fairly sure she hadn’t even _asked_ for it. But, for Mr. Fortescue at the nursery, “holiday greenery” includes mistletoe and so there it was, salvia-like leaves and white berries and all.

The kitchen clock strikes ten and she sighs, then picks up the little branch and sticks it above the kitchen doorway on a nail that’s been there so long she can’t remember why she put it there in the first place. Then she turns her attention firmly to the small ham -- she and Laura had agreed they’d rather eat ham sandwiches for the next month than turkey -- and the trimmings and tries to forget all about it.

This attempt succeeds about as well as such attempts normally do: it’s all she can think about. She would swear the little sprig is getting bigger every time she turns around, starting to loom in the corner of her vision as if she had stuck a shrub in the doorway.

She slides the ham into the oven, shuts the door, then turns, plants her hands on the table, and glares at the little sprig of green. ‘You are not going to win,’ she tells it, shaking a finger at it so her bracelets rattle. ‘You can sit there all day if you like and you are not--’

‘Rosemary? Who are you talking to?’

Rosemary freezes, then slowly lowers her hand to the tabletop. ‘Laura?’

‘Who else?’ Laura comes in from the hall and -- damn Rosemary’s luck -- pauses in the doorway like she's posing under the wretched mistletoe, her arms full of parcels, a Waitrose bag hanging from one hand. She looks like an advert for some kind of life Rosemary hadn't even known she wanted. 

‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Working on lunch.’

‘Talking it to death?’

‘I got it to stop wriggling at least,’ Rosemary says as she rounds the table and tries to figure out what she can take out of Laura’s hands without causing the entire superstructure to collapse.

‘Here--’ Laura jiggles the shopping bag. ‘Most important thing’s in there.’

Rosemary takes the bag and peers inside. ‘What do you want to start: red or other red?’

‘Oh, other red, definitely.’ Laura crosses the kitchen and disappears into the sitting room with the rest of her burden and Rosemary hears her ooh at the tree. ‘Oh, Rosemary, this is lovely! You didn’t have to go to all this effort!’

‘We’re gardeners, Laura -- it’s not a great deal of effort to go to the nursery,’ Rosemary says, trying to remember where she put the good corkscrew. 

‘Well, no--’ Laura reappears in the sitting room doorway, coat in one hand, her cheeks bright from the cold air outside. ‘--but you didn’t have to do all this just for me.’

Rosemary pours two glasses of wine and leaves the bottle on the counter by the sink. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says, handing one glass to Laura. ‘I did it all for the ham.’

* * *

It starts to snow mid-way through the afternoon: slow, lazy, quiet flakes that they don’t notice until there’s already half an inch accumulated on the windowsill. Laura, getting up to refill her glass, peers out. ‘Oh, dear -- and I walked, too--’

Rosemary drains the bottle into her own glass. ‘Well, don’t worry about it. The old lady and I can run you home.’

‘Did you get those new tires for her yet?’

‘Oh. Hm.’ Rosemary takes a swallow of wine, frowning at Laura where she stands against the window, glass in one hand, her gauzy scarf loose about her throat, looking large and comfortable and so much like home that Rosemary is abruptly aware she’s hitting the maudlin stage of tipsy. ‘There’s always the spare room.’

Laura glances out the window again, then smiles at Rosemary. ‘I suppose there is.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘This needs something sweet…’ She bustles out into the kitchen and Rosemary can hear her rustling among the parcels she had brought.

Rosemary lets herself slide gently off the couch onto the floor, stretching her socked feet towards the fireplace and the few logs crackling gently there. Laura had added a handful of small pinecones and there is still a lingering scent of warm pine and sweetness in the room. Much like the scent Laura brings with her everywhere, Rosemary catches herself thinking and groans, dropping her head against the low coffee table with a thunk.

‘Christmas too much for you all of a sudden?’ 

Rosemary doesn’t bother to lift her head; she hears Laura sit down on the other side of the table, the clink of a plate being set down, various clothy noises as Laura establishes her usual nest of pillows on the floor, then a long sigh as Laura lets herself relax.

‘Mr. Fortescue did you well,’ Laura says after a minute and Rosemary nods without raising her head. ‘Made sure you got the full package.’

‘What?’ Rosemary raises her head enough to prop her chin on her wrist and realises that Laura has found the mistletoe. It’s sitting in the midst of a plate of chocolate-covered biscuits and Laura’s smiling at her. ‘Oh. Yes. Well.’

‘Who did you tell him you were having over?’ Laura takes a sip of wine and puts her glass down.

‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ Rosemary grumbles, picking the bit of green off the plate. She would throw it in the fire except that it would stink and she’s really not sure if the fumes would be toxic. A quick trip to A&E would hardly be the best end to this day. 

Laura reaches out and takes the mistletoe from her, twirling it between her fingers. ‘Seems a pity to waste it.’

Rosemary blinks at her. ‘Waste it? It’s already dead, Laura.’

Laura grimaces. ‘How romantic of you.’

‘I’ll have you know I am just as -- as romantic as the next --’ Rosemary flails into silence and Laura watches her for a long, uncomfortable minute before clearing her throat and walking on her knees around the edge of the table. ‘Laura…’

Laura holds the mistletoe above her own head. ‘Well? You could have left it in the box or thrown it on the compost. But you put it up. I have solved a crime or two in my day, y’know; I can follow a clue.’ 

‘Oh -- all right, all right--’ Rosemary leans forward and gives Laura the most perfunctory kiss she thinks she has ever given anyone, not excluding her grandmother. She sits back and tries to remember what she should do with her hands -- putting them in Laura’s seems like much the best idea but she’s fairly sure that would be a giveaway. As it is, she’s almost certain Laura can hear her heartbeat.

Laura raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. ‘If I put that much effort into a border, you’d never let me forget it.’

‘Laura--’

Laura sighs and shakes her head, miming dismay. ‘If you want something done right--’ She leans forward so slowly that Rosemary fully realises she’s being given time to edge away or laugh or make some other protest but she can’t or won’t or doesn’t want to -- she can’t tell which and then Laura is kissing her and there's absolutely nothing perfunctory about it and she knows _exactly_ what to do with her hands and she is never getting rid of that bit of mistletoe.


End file.
